


The Dragon's Den

by LuciNoct



Category: Fantasy - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Dragons, Fantasy, Gen, M/M, Magic, Original Universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23234809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciNoct/pseuds/LuciNoct
Summary: An adventurer on a quest takes a tumble, and wakes up in the care of a strange man.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

My legs burn. I force them to keep running. 

It was meant to be a simple quest—take out a couple cultists, grab a ring, take any missives they might've had on them, and head back to the inn. I would've been done by dusk. 

Something flies past my cheek and _thwucks_ against a tree. 

"Fuck."

I don't dare look back. 

I'd found them partway between the dragon's den and the spire, right where I was told they'd be, but that... _thing_ was with them. Its form shifted, silhouette almost incomprehensible, with appendages and organs appearing then suddenly seeming to never have existed at all. 

We locked eyes, and I started running.

I try to call up a ball of light, one more time, but all that comes out is a puff of smoke. My foot catches on a root, and I fall to the ground—just barely breaking the fall with my arms.

i get up and continue to run.

it's been... hours? that doesn't sound right, but the sun's gone and i'm so tired and i don't know if i can make it back to town. 

town? where am i?

it's so dark i can't see anything but i keep going anyway. no light, no magic. why haven't they stopped chasing me

i tumble down

my hip bashes into a rock i keep rolling

down 

another hard sharp

wounds

falling slower

crunch

stop

i cough

glowing lights

a roar

i fade


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Adventurer wakes up.

. . .

?

I push my eyes open. My eyelids are heavy, unwilling to move, like they hadn't done so in a while. 

It takes a few moments for my vision to clear. As I blink the last of the blurriness away, I try to push myself off the soft surface I lie on, grunting as my arms shake and strain and give out.

I breathe. Refocus myself. Then I try again, this time managing to sit up. Still, it takes a lot out of me, and I pant as I rest on the wall, separated from it only by the pillow at my lower back. 

My head's cloudy. The room's unfamiliar. My eyes turn down. I'm covered in bruises and bandages.

I sit in a mess of fluffy, padded pelts, several similar patterns swirling into each other. I don't recognize the creatures they might've come from. I flex my fingers, catching some soft fur in them. My hands shake.

My eyes draw towards the sole source of light—a small lamp, resting on a dresser next to the bed. A simple ball of light wrapped with fabric. Next to it's a couple dense triangles of dust, like someone tried to wipe it away but missed a few spots. 

I stare at the dust for a while, then the light, feeling blank. Tired. Then I hear a click.

And then another.

Then footsteps.

I don't know who I'd expected. I'm not sure I managed to expect anyone at all. But I didn't expect anyone like him.

The only things that register at first are his eyes, a piercing glacial blue even in the low light, and his muted expression, showing mere hints of some emotion too subtle, too hidden for me to read. But then he speaks, and I listen, only dully aware of the rest of him. I don't notice how close he's gotten until he stops.

"How are you feeling?"

I blink. Exhausted, I could say. Confused. What the hell am I doing here?

…why don't I remember anything?

My eyes go back down as I try to think, forgetting he ever asked anything. When I look back up, his brows have twisted, so slightly I almost don't notice. I still can't tell whether he's concerned or annoyed. Annoyed would be better.

"Can you understand me?"

I nod, but only a bit. Shakily.

He closes his eyes, nods back, and opens them up again in a single calm motion.

"Can you speak?"

_Yeah, I can,_ I try to respond. Instead, it comes out as an inane gurgle.

_Yes, I can._

_Yes, I can._

Why isn't it coming out properly?

The man's face twists again. I can tell it's worry. I face away from him as quick as my muscles allow. My neck jitters.

"I'll return promptly. Please don't leave while I'm away."

Wait, don't leave. Please.

He disappears into the dark corridor he'd entered through.

Footsteps.

Click.

Footsteps.

Click.

Again, the room is quiet, and I'm all alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hey! This is a story for two of my longest-standing characters. I've thought about them a lot over the past six-or-so years, putting them into different alternate universes, but I've never really had any concrete story for them to move around in.
> 
> Until now.
> 
> This is the first time I've written story-format prose in a while—and the first time I've tried to write up a multi-chapter narrative, I think! This shouldn't be too serious, so sit back and enjoy the ride!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Adventurer has a few moments to think, and the Strange Man returns.

His absence gives me some time to think, at least. To breathe and look around. Maybe figure out where the hell I am.

The fog still clouds my mind. My gaze drifts from where he’d left, and it meanders to the opposite corner.

There’s a mirror I hadn’t noticed before, next to a wooden wardrobe.

The man staring back has tired, tangerine eyes. Fiery hair, a darker red at the tips. Tanned skin dotted with freckles. I look back down at myself, and it registers that I’m nearly naked, with just bandages and my underclothing to keep me modest. The bruises are uneven crimson, and I’m covered in them. 

My eyes climb back up, and I meet my own gaze, then hesitate as I turn my head. There’s a wide, bloodied linen above my left temple, stuck there with some kind of tape.

Absentmindedly, I reach up to touch it. My fingers graze the patch before pressing down—and quickly recoil from the pain. Shit. What happened? 

My hand, still unsteady, comes down to touch my lips. I try a small spell, repeating the words ingrained in my muscle memory. Even as I feel the magic pulse in my veins, the shapes my mouth forms are all wrong. Nothing happens.

I do it again,

and again,

and again, until finally a speck of light sputters into existence before me.

Then it dies out. 

A huff pushes its way through my lips as I slump back, panting, teeth gnashing against each other. If I can’t even fucking cast the simplest spell I know, how am I supposed to—

…to what? Escape? I can barely even move. If the man who’d come in earlier wanted something from me, I probably wouldn’t be sitting here with salve in my wounds and barely even enough memory to remember my name. 

I hear a click. Then footfall on stone. Just as before, it manages to knock most of the drowsiness from me, at least temporarily.

Before he comes into view, I pull at some of the pelts and cover myself. Then it occurs to me that he’s probably already seen everything. I sigh. 

He’s holding a slightly-tarnished tray this time—silver, it seems, with the height difference between us hiding whatever’s on it. 

“I hope I haven’t taken too long."

I don’t attempt to reply. I’m not sure what I would’ve said had I tried.

He frowns again, that little, just barely-visible frown, and nods again. “You must be hungry; you’ve been asleep for a while.” I don’t know where that accent’s from, but the fact that it puts me at ease somehow makes me feel even warier.

He puts the tray down on the dresser next to me. I hear the clinking of porcelain against metal against wood, just as I pick up the scent of cheese on bread. 

A pan-fried sandwich, slices of bread evenly toasted with mottled yellow-orange cheese oozing out from between them. He couldn’t have known, could he?

“I apologize if it’s not to your liking; I don’t often have to cook for others.”

Before he finishes speaking, I’ve already started reaching for the sandwich. But my arm shakes too much, and my hand bumps into the teapot next to the plate it’s on.

“…would you like some help?”

Now it’s my turn to pout. I pause, then nod obstinately. He smiles a bit and picks up the utensils.


End file.
